


Once an Outcast

by Jameskidding



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Ballads, Dialogue Light, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Mary Read presented as ftm trans, Mary read referred to as Mark Read at first, No Dialogue, Not Beta Read, Trans Male Character, trans male written by a trans male
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-05-14 19:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14775579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameskidding/pseuds/Jameskidding
Summary: This is a series of Assassin's Creed based short stories, poems, and essays that I, an Adult Human Man, have written for various graded assignments. I'm posting mostly edited versions of the original work, and will include the context of the prompt in the notes.These were all written many years ago.





	1. Once an Outcast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Outcast" was written in 2015 for a Comp 1 writing assignment requiring us to write about a time we felt like an outcast. My only issue with the prompt was that being a mostly private person, I requested writing it about a historical person.

Mark never chose this life it was chosen for him. In birth, he was destined to play the part of the outcast. He was born and illegitimate child to a sea captain, as his mother told it. Mark, personally, liked to pretend it was the infamous Captain Kidd. His mother never confirmed his suspicions, but she never denied them.  
  
Mark was born as “Mary,” his identity changed when his older brother died, his mother, Anne, needing the original Mark’s grandmother, Elizabeth, for money. She didn’t have her own source of income, which meant tricking the old woman by presenting Mary as “Mark.” Anne had a point in this scheme, it was easier and safer to trick Elizabeth rather than sell her body. 

So, who was he really? Mary by birth, but never again. Mark based on a lie, but even that didn’t quite work for him. James Kidd, he had settled on after his time as a cabin boy. There was a long story to tell before he would get to that point. Hardship, pain, and emotional trauma. He had passed so easily as Mark, it became a truth to him. A comfort.  
  
His mother tried to ruin it for him.  
  
He was five the face to face meetings began. When they moved to London to live closer to Elizabeth.  
  
“Sit like this,” Anne spoke, fixing Mark’s posture so he was slouching slightly, legs left uncrossed at the ankle, arms draped in his lap. “Perfect. When you speak, make sure you always refer to yourself as “Mark,” little one,” she gently reminded him before the first visit. At this point, he hadn’t gone by “Mark” for more than a year, so the reminder was slightly necessary.  
  
“My beautiful grandson,” Elizabeth greeted as the pair entered her mansion, her arms stretched out for a hug.  
  
Mark obliged, coming to the strange woman and allowing her to embrace him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, grandmother,” Mark gave a bashful smile, his eyes mostly focused on the floor. He wasn’t completely let in on the lie yet, didn’t know that she wasn’t his real grandmother. He was informed that “Mary” would get none of the money that “Mark” would.

After a few visits, Elizabeth had offered to enroll him in school. School! He’s be going to school! That was the most exciting thing he could imagine for himself. He could make so many friends and being in school meant he would be living in his grandmother’s home.

 

* * *

 

On Mark’s 9th birthday, his grandmother had an instructor begin training him with a rapier and a saber. Elizabeth was such an amazing woman, paying not only his mother, but paying for his schooling, a fighting instructor, and soon she would be buying him a tailored suit. 

At this point, He had forgotten that he was not born “Mark.” At this point, he was “Mark.” Not only for him, but for his grandmother.

He studied hard, his mother kind enough to wait until he was finished with basic schooling before informing him that they would be moving to the countryside to live with Anne’s sister, away from the excitement of London, away from his dear grandmother.  
  
“I’ll write to you, grandmother. Thank you for everything,” Mark spoke through tears that threatened to fall. He had so much to be grateful for.

“You speak as though you’re leaving forever, little one,” Elizabeth brushed the tears from his cheeks, pulled him into tight hug. “You’ll be just fine. I’ll miss having so much excitement here,” she said, guiding him to the door. “Have a safe trip, Anne. It was a pleasure having you both here,” the older woman brought Anne into a hug.  
  
With that, they were off.

 

* * *

 

 

After his twelfth birthday, Mark was awoken one night with an indescribable pain in his lower stomach. He got out of bed, the moonlight shining through his window to reveal a dark spot on his sheets. This was it, he was dying. It felt like he was being stabbed repeatedly, even as he made his way into the room harboring his mother.  
  
“What is it, dear?” She asked as Mark entered the room. Paler than usual, obviously in pain. She wouldn’t make assumptions.  
  
“I think I’m dying,” he kneeled at the side of his mother’s bed, in so much pain, knowing that there was too much blood coming out of his body to sit on the mattress. “There’s so much blood. Mother, what is this? Do the knights of hell call on me?”  
  
“Oh, my dear, sweet Mary,” his mother started, placing a hand gently on Mark’s arm before being interrupted by a jerk from her child.  
  
“Mary? Why do you call me this, mother?”

“You know well, child, that you are Mary,” she answered, pulling the youth toward her in a gentle hug.  “You’ve started your monthly bleeding if what you are telling me is anything to go by. You should stop this ruse. Live as the woman you were intended to be,” she continued, gently stroking Mark’s hair.  
  
“No, mother,” Mark pulled away, the pain not forgotten, but overshadowed by his mother’s words. There was no way he could do that. “I am in a good school, mother, a proper grammar school! I have a good hand and a strong sword arm, why would you take these away from me? I have never been anyone but Mark, and you ask me to leave the only identity I have ever known,” he was beginning to cry at this point, which was mostly unusual for him. He couldn’t understand why his mother would be like this, why she would give him so much only to want to take it away.

“I relent, my son,” she stood and pulled her child back to her, began to explain monthly bleedings and how to protect her clothing from them, how to hide them.

 

* * *

 

Each month, Anne was growing more and more adamant that Mark should present as Mary. It was driving him insane. He had to leave her. For his life, his health, physical as well as emotional, he had to leave.

Anne, his own mother, had threatened to out him to the world if he didn’t, and this is a direct quote, “drop the Mark act.” She called him a monstrosity. A freak of nature. A danger to the public.

Did she not realize that in doing so, she would be signing his death warrant? Mark would likely be thrown out of his home, the village he knew and grew to love, for being who he is. He would lose his friends, but not on his own terms like a normal person. Worst comes to worst, he could potentially be hanged for presenting himself as he has.

In the middle of the night, taking his favorite horse from the stable he worked, Mark left for London. For his grandmother. It had been a long while since they had last met. In fact, he wasn’t even positive she would still be alive. He had a deep-rooted hope that she was still alive, and nothing could bring his hopes down.  
  
He arrived in a day and a half, paying no mind to the awful stench permeating his attire. He would freshen up should her doorman allow Mark entry. He was so nervous, handing his borrowed horse off to a stable hand. If he were to be outed, he wanted it to come from his own mouth. He supposed he had to tell her.

 All his life, all that he’d known the elderly woman, she had been nothing but kind to Mark. After the doorman had let him in, after he changed into fresher clothes, he found her. The woman was embroidering a hand towel, seated on a comfortable chair. When Mark had entered, she set her project down and welcomed him with a hug.

“Oh, my dearest grandchild has returned to me!” Elizabeth exclaimed, despite the fact that Mark was her only grandchild. “What brings you around, my child? You look tired as is, how are you fairing?” The woman led Mark over to sit with her, calling for tea. She saw this unexpected visit as a chance to catch up.

At her overwhelming kindness, Mark actually started to cry. This startled the woman, but not for too long. She wrapped a protective arm around her grandchild, who only sobbed harder.

 

* * *

 

 

After Mark had a long cry, he delved into the details. It hadn’t been his fault. He wanted to live a normal life, his mother had turned him into this, what she had called, monster. “Mother told me, at too young an age for me to remember, that I was born as Mary. I have been living as Mark all my life, all to deceive you. I am so sorry!” 

An incredibly soft cloth was gently pressed to Mark’s cheeks as a new wave of tears came. “My dear, sweet grandchild,” Elizabeth began, continuing to gently dab his cheeks, “Whether you are my son’s child or not makes no difference to me. You are still my grandson, and I will always love you.” The old woman was too kind, to accepting. Mark gave her a tight hug, not wanting to let go. “Tell me about grammar school, Mark, and your fencing classes. Tell me about your studies,” she gently coaxed, trying to get a smile out of the young boy.

It worked, and after a long, detailed description of his classes, classmates, and friends, Mark was right as rain.

 

* * *

 

 

The boy had stayed with his grandmother for a few weeks. She was overjoyed that he stayed, that he trusted her.

Mark was overjoyed that the elderly woman was accepting of his situation. She helped him with remedies for his monthly bleedings, bought him new books, a new sword, and plenty of new clothing. She was a saint, an actual living saint.

It came time for him to leave when a letter from his mother arrived in the mail. It was a sad goodbye, but it had to happen. His mother was threatening to come and retrieve him from the old woman, to out him to the world.

He didn’t want to leave, didn’t know where he would go. He had a sack of clothes, a purse filled with coin, and his sword at his side. He didn’t have a plan, cheeks stained with tears after their parting. He would always hold the old woman in his heart.

He sat on a dock, watching the ships and their crews. He had been contemplating just jumping into the sea, waited down with his sorrows.

Just as he thought himself resigned to his fate, the captain of a ship came up behind him.

“Boy,” the man spoke in a booming voice, as a captain should. He scared Mark half to death in doing so. “Are you skilled with that blade?”  
  
Mark wiped his face with a sleeve and nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ve trained with it for six years, sir,” he answered, staring up at the man. He was as any captain should be, muscular, tanned from the time in the sun, dark hair sun-bleached in a few spots His eyes were bright, the skin around them wrinkled with age. He had a kind but commanding disposition.

“I am in need of a cabin boy. One of mine has just been promoted. Are you interested, son?” The man held a hand out to the young man still seated on the dock before him.

Son.  
  
“Yes, sir,” Mark took the man’s hand and stood with his belongings in tow. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me just yet. Come, I’ll show you to the ship. We set sail in just two days,” He led Mark to a Fluyt at the end of the docks. “What is your name, son?”  
  
“Mark, sir,” the young man said, following close behind.

“Welcome aboard, Mark. I am Captain James Smith and this ship is called “Ildefonso.” Consider it your new home, our voyage will last three months,” Captain Smith explained, leading him to the cabin boy’s chambers. It was cramped, but not so bad. “I’ll leave you to settle in, dinner is at dusk. If you miss it, you don’t eat,” he warned, taking his leave after a noise of understanding from Mark.

 

In two days, Mark would be free of London. Free of England. Free of his mother and her open disappointment.

 

Most importantly, he would be free of Mary.


	2. Ballad of Maria Thorpe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was written for my English Honors class in September 2013. The prompt was vague, all we had to work on was "write a ballad"
> 
> This is the revised version of what I turned in, rewritten in December of 2014.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one obviously deals with Maria Thorpe and her eventual death. In game, that messed me up not gonna lie.

Maria Thorpe could never win,   
Not in birth, not in the end.  
Her first marriage was a bust, an annulment from a fool, left with no trust,  
She left, head high, left England

Maria Thorpe ventured to France, living as Mathias to have a chance.   
She joined the Templars in their "Holy quest"  
But was discovered to be a woman, a fraud, a traitor!  
She left, head high, home and future dispossessed.

Maria Thorpe rescued from death.  
Saved by the Templar Grandmaster, no less!  
She served his cause, no matter the cost. Played a pawn and almost lost.  
She left, head high, not a prize to be possessed. 

Maria Thorpe was found, nearly killed, by the enemy  
Held captive for a time, until it begun.  
Enemies, now lovers; the crescent to her cross,  
She stayed, head high. She had finally won.

Maria Thorpe, her husband Altaïr, were never afraid.  
They had two healthy sons, free of any strife,  
Soon traveled to defeat an enemy abroad. Their youngest son stayed, his life betrayed.  
She left, head high, never expecting the loss of her son's life. 

Maria Thorpe, now an old woman with a long life ahead,  
never expected to meet a knife, hot white, a sharp and painful sting,  
A blade buried in her back, an outburst involving the technology  
She left the world, head high, uttering one last thing:  
"Strength, Altaïr."

 

He could never win.

**Author's Note:**

> "Outcast" was written in 2015 for a Comp 1 writing assignment requiring us to write about a time we felt like an outcast. My only issue with the prompt was that being a mostly private person, I requested writing it about a historical person. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, or hmu on Tumblr @Jameskidding


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